


Hate Crimes

by Su_Whisterfield



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Su_Whisterfield/pseuds/Su_Whisterfield
Summary: Hate is a sickness that Logan’s claws can’t touch.
Relationships: Logan/Kurt Wagner
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	Hate Crimes

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature for Logan’s language.  
> No smut beyond hand holding.  
> This is another ficklet triggered by fan art on Tumblr, this time by say-cyke-rn of Logan cleaning Kurt up after a fight.

The worst cut is on his upper right thigh. It’s still bleeding, needs stitches. I’ve run out of shirt.  
The little fuckers had broken bottles. Sticks. Makeshift weapons can still do a lot of damage.  
I watch him wind part of the cotton sleeve around his wrist. That cut is shallow, not much more than a deep scratch.

He’s so fucking calm about it.

I’m not.

My urge is to go out there, find ‘em and gut every last one of the fuckers. I’ve got their scent, I could just go and fucking do it. He can’t fucking stop me. The bastards...  
He rests his hand on my arm.  
“No.”  
He can read my mood, my body language, he knows.  
“No, Logan. They were just kids.”  
He’s so not helping. Fucking kids? Fucking old enough to fucking beat the shit out of him. He’d stepped out of the crowded bar to make a phone call, they must have got the drop on him, he’s greased lightning in a fight, but there’s a duck egg of a lump on the back of his head, someone hit him first then they were on him like animals.  
I’m growling. I can hear myself.  
“No.” Again, that soft command, his hand, his strange bifurcated fingers, tighten on my bicep.

“You okay in there?” One of the bar staff looks over the door of the toilet cubicle, there ain’t much privacy to stop folks using the restroom for hookups. He scowls at the blood on the tiles. “Aw, shit, Kurt, didn’t know it was you. You okay, man?”  
Elf lifts his head, gives the youngster a slight smile.  
“Ja, Ian, I am fine, I am sorry about the mess.”  
“Hey, forget about that, what happened?”  
I realise we have an audience behind the barman, of young people with weird hair cuts, older guys with tats, all looking at the side show. I’m growling again, my boy’s pain isn’t a spectator sport, but there’s movement and Kay, the bar owner, is behind Ian and is chivvying the gawkers out. No one argues with Kay, she’s built like a linebacker.  
“Ian, clear these ghouls out.” Ian scrambles to do as she instructs. She comes right into the cubicle, ignoring me and crouches down in front of him. “You okay, sweetie?” The rough voice is gone. He flinches as she reaches out a massive paw towards his face. “Let me have a look, I was a medic when I was in The Gulf.” She spares me a glance for the first time. “Go get another drink, short stuff, I’ll fix him up just fine, got a pro kit in my office.”  
I look back at him, at her. I still want to go out there and carve the fuckers to bits. Kurt’s soft gold eyes are on my face, pleading with me. Logan, no. Turn the other fucking cheek.  
I do as I’m told.

Ian sets up a cold one with a whisky chaser on the bar. Everyone gives me a wide berth, but I catch snippets of conversation.  
“Ain’t no one safe. Donny DeAngelo got shot on Fourth last week.”  
“Mutie haters.”  
“Queer bashing.”  
“Gangs.”  
I look at ‘em in the mirror over the bar. Black kids. Brown. White. Lot of them queer, or just different, bright hair, bright clothes, Kay’s clientele are a mixed bunch of weirdos. Targets, a lot of them. But none of them have as big a target painted on their back as my lad. They can all pass as human. I close my eyes as I down the brew, the image of his blood on the floor of the ally, in the toilet stall, is bright in my memory. How many times has he been chased by mobs? Attacked just for existing? Five? Ten times?

One of the bar staff refills my glass, Bev, with the piercings and green hair. Flamboyant, friendly. Her girlfriend got beaten up real bad in October.  
It ain’t only my lad the mob hates.  
“Thanks, Bev.”  
“No problem.”

I could go out and find the fuckers. Now. While he’s not here to stop me.  
Could go find the scum who’d beat on a little lass for bein’ queer too.  
Or who’d shot Donny, whoever he was.  
Golden eyes.  
No, Logan.

I down a couple more beers.

He’s behind me, Kay towering over him like a particularly ugly guardian angel. He’s wearing his shirt but she’s found him a pair of pants, they’re too big but it’s an improvement on his blood soaked jeans. He’s looking more like himself again. Less like a victim.  
“Logan,” the relief in his voice is unmistakable, he really wasn’t sure I’d do as he asked, if I’d still be here. I get off my stool. “Can we go home now? “ He looks done in, I grab my hat, only then realise I’m still bare chested. Who gives a damn?  
“Thank you, Kay.” He gives her his charming smile.  
“Ain’t nothin’ sweetheart,” she rumbles. She scowls at me. “You get him home safe now.”  
I jam my hat on my head. “You betcha.”

We go out the back door, Elf wants to look for his phone, it’s custom made, keypad is adapted for his thick fingers. The alley smells of piss, dope, rotting garbage. And his blood.  
The phone is like him, a bit battered but in one piece.  
He’s shivering. I wrap my arms around him and he buries his head against my neck.  
“I’m sorry, darlin’.” Sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. Sorry this happened, again. Sorry I didn’t slice the fuckers to ribbons.  
He draws a steadying breath. He’s tough as nails, he has to be to face this shit again and again.  
“Thank you.”  
“Huh?”  
“Thank you for not going after them,” he sighs. “Killing, even killing the likes of them, isn’t the answer.” He pulls back and looks me in they eye. “I scared them. They won’t do it again.”  
“Huh? Do what?”  
He looks away. “They were beating someone up, one of the trans girls from the bar. It was six against one,” he bares his teeth in frustration and anger. “So I stopped them, I ‘ported over, roughed them up a bit. But when I went to help her up, they went for me too. I thought I’d seen them off.”  
“Damn stupid, rookie error.” I grumble at him, resting my hand at the back of his neck. He can never resist helping any damsel in distress. “Come on, let’s get you home, I’m sure Cece will want to check out Kay’s needlework.”  
“Do we have to...”  
“Yes we have to, you still look like shit.”

Hate. They didn’t attack him because he was a mutant, they attacked him because he defended a transgender woman. Hate is a sickness. I can’t kill a sickness.  
I can’t kill all the hate, all the haters in the world. Damn it. I want easy enemies I can get my claws into.  
We walk back to the car, he’s limping slightly.  
I hold his hand, my gentle, fierce lad.  
There’s no hate in him though.  
I bring his hand up and kiss his bruised knuckles.  
Stay fierce, Elf, save them from the hate, but next time, let me watch your back.


End file.
